


oublie-moi

by demios



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Angst...? Kind of, Canon Compliant, DRK 80 Spoilers, Family-friendly body sharing, Other, POV Second Person, Patch 5.0: Shadowbringers Spoilers, fray's wol lovemail
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:07:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22500691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demios/pseuds/demios
Summary: So now comes the choice: hold the crystal close that we may enjoy these moments together. Or put it away and pretend I was never a part of it. That I was never really here.
Relationships: Fray Myste/Sidurgu Orl, Fray Myste/Warrior of Light
Comments: 6
Kudos: 76





	oublie-moi

**Author's Note:**

> [title from the coeur de pirate song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_4cE7GccE_Q)
> 
> unbeta'd but this is barely coherent anyways! enjoy or something

“What a convoluted way to speak to them,” Sid mutters, almost bumping your elbow and turning your attempt at elegant script into naught more than a scrawl. The mug of warm cider he sets at your side does little to abate your annoyance, your nose wrinkling when you frown.

One dark and brooding au ra sits across from your spot at the kitchen table, his own cup of tea half-downed. This visit is like any other. An eternally weary head, the pull of someone else’s home through the cold and snow, the asylum of a warm hearth among wood. The welcome of obsidian scales catching stray candlelight, small hands tugging yours inside and away from the world. Things that were theirs, but things you’ve made your own, too, in this precariously balanced ebb and swell of the tide. 

Just like the mess of parchment and ink you’ve created in your haste from rummaging through your master’s study.

Sidurgu sighs when you continue to ignore him in favor of the paper before you, his long tail idly swatting the leg of his chair. “You could always just ask, you know. They wouldn’t mind.”

Could it ever be that easy, you wonder. There were always more important matters to tend to than reminiscing. “I’m no less in need of an emotional purgative than you.” You reply pointedly, and with as much dignity as you can muster. “And besides, they’re preoccupied with so much, it wouldn't be right to just... _impose.”_ The word gives it a bit more weight, when you exist partway between one person's emotions and another’s memories.

“Even for just a moment?” Sid asks.

You shake your head. “A moment wouldn’t suffice. There are far too many things I would like to say, and not enough bells in which to say them.” Too much welling between the cracks, too much held back by a dam of your own making. You’ll not suffocate them in the deluge of your sentimental ramblings when they were burdened by everything else. “I’m running on borrowed time to begin with.” You remind him.

“So you’re going to write them a bloody novel instead.” He retorts with one brow raised. Not that he has any intention of stopping you, instead curiously watching you dot the end of a sentence. 

“Would I truly be me if I didn’t?” After everything, you found that the cozy nook between the paragraphs of their journal weren’t enough. It was too easy for them to skim the pages, and the swathes of prose burning beneath your fingers would look starkly out of place among the hastily scribbled notes.

“I suppose not.” His lips curve upwards. “You always did have a flair for the dramatic, when it came down to it.”

“You have the right of it.” You say, returning his smile. “Now shut up and hand me more ink.”

Sid snorts and hands you the well just out of your reach, watching with muted amusement as you continue your efforts. A smudge of lettering here, a splatter of ink there, a fraction of a bell where you hold your head in your hands, wondering why you decided to undertake this endeavor in the first place when you were sorely unprepared. You’re not going to give Sid the satisfaction of quitting right under his nose, though. You were always too stubborn for that. You give him a light kick in the shin from under the table when he asks if you’ve given up.

...Back to it, then. Sid lights another candle because the first has started to burn out, and you give him a quiet thanks when he returns to keep you company. He regales you with accounts of his idle days, telling you of mundane adventures you've missed while saving the realm, political developments between Ishgard and Dravania, and Rielle’s rebellious streak rearing its head. It's enough to know that he and your charge are well, even if you can't be by their side. You offer the occasional hum or cutting wit in response, focused on your task but grateful all the same.

Rielle is already asleep, leaving just you two in the room, humbled by the crackling hearth, under a shoddy roof that sheltered you years ago. Your pen strokes fill the air between Sid’s words - in another life, you would have been inclined to strap steel to your back and slip through the streets of the Brume. But things change; the Holy See has little need for dark knights these days.

So here you are, wielding a quill instead of a sword. You never were talented at correspondence outside of nubs of charcoal scratched into stray scraps of paper. But it’s the thought that counts, you think, however vague your words may seem. That’s the intent, anyways, lest they somehow determine your identity among the many lives they’ve touched and saved. 

After many long minutes of tribulation and deliberation, you finally finish penning your letter. You stare at the last two words of your sloppy handwriting. A request, if you could ever be indulged. What else is there to say, really? It’s all you’ve ever wanted, all you could ever hope for in the wake of your absence. 

You don't know if it will ever be opened - yet somehow, the thought doesn't bother you as much as it should.

You fold it into thirds, the sound making Sid perk up from beneath his shaggy hair. His tea is gone, your barely-touched cider long cooled. “Should I hold onto it?” 

“That would make it too obvious.” You’re not trying to commandeer their attention. Whether the letter is found is up to them, like how they found you, rotting and festering in a cracked piece of crystal. “But I trust it will find its way home.” You lightly etch the shape of a rune onto the parchment with your finger, the aether trailing after it glowing faintly before dying.

It was a rune that Ser Ompagne taught the both of you so you could always find one another. You grasp his wrist and gently turn over his hand, tracing the same shape into his calloused palm. A fondness takes over you when you immediately feel the tug of the sigil. Sid feels it, too, because his eyes widen, then soften in understanding. A meager comfort when you were young, when you hid in towering forests and crevices of stone, praying no one would find you and sheathe a sword between your ribs.

You slip your feelings into an envelope, as if they would weather this storm unscathed. Candles are no stranger to you, the heat playfully brushing your fingers when you seal it shut. You press one of Ser Ompagne’s crests into the dripping wax when it settles - the symbol of a now nameless house whose bloodline ended with an enigmatic knight and his two apprentices.

You feel a twinge of nostalgia at that; a memory passes through your periphery, one of a larger hand guiding yours through the motions of a rune. It was one lesson of many, symbols that carved their way into your eyelids and the love of a mentor that wormed its way into your reckless, wild heart. You still carry them with you, for it was something even death couldn't take.

“I’ll drop it off to a courier come morning. And,” You make an expectant gesture, coaxing Sid closer. “Let me see that wound you've been nursing.” He did a sorry job of hiding it earlier, wincing when he put his weight on one arm.

There's no resistance from him - it's futile to argue with you and he knows it. Instead, he brings his chair closer and rolls up one sleeve of his shirt. You carefully unwrap the gauze, thoroughly scanning over what you find beneath.

Half-healed claw marks have just begun to scab over, the mess of half-gooey red surrounding cracked scales still glistening but close to mending. Rielle’s handiwork - the fruits of what you've taught her and recent lessons from Stillglade Fane.

“Dare I ask?” You raise a brow while keeping your voice even. Sid ought to consider himself lucky you're not going to immediately berate him.

“I was taking Rielle to Anyx Trine.” He shrugs, not entirely meeting your gaze. “She wanted to visit Vidofnir and Orn Khai again. We met one of Nidhogg’s brood on the way.”

“I see.” Except you don't, further peeling back the bandages and already formulating the best way to mend the wound back together.

“Sometimes her words reach them, other times they don’t. Ser Azure Dragoon says that the wyrm’s song has driven most of his kin to madness, but she tries to heal them regardless.” Sid explains, keeping still as you frame your hands around his forearm. 

You know all the way dragons can rend and maim - and you know that fending off the See’s zealots did little to prepare one for skirmishes with the Horde. Where Templars spent their days defending Ishgard from wyverns and the like, your master taught you how to survive when your enemy was your fellow man. You had the scars the show for it. So does Sid.

Because of this, you decide to spare him a lecture. “And what of her conjury?” You ask instead. You know you never taught her to leave a job half-done, not that she would want to in the first place.

“I know little of Dravanians and their customs, but we met with some success.” You don’t miss the note of pride in his words. “I told her to heal the wyrm and worry about me later.”

“She’s grown quite a bit in our absence.” You observe, aether beginning to gather at your fingertips.

“Has she? She's still a runt, if you ask me.” Sid’s voice is tinged with mischief, knowing Rielle would give him an earful if she heard him say such a thing.

“Just be thankful she isn't growing as quickly as you did. It’s a wonder how Ser Ompagne kept us fed with how much you'd put away.” You snort.

He waves his free hand flippantly. “At least I had the height to show for it, eh? Unlike certain others.”

“Another word out of you and I’ll be claiming your kneecaps.” You shoot back with a growl, but it lacks any real bite behind it when a smile touches your lips.

Sid only breathes a dry laugh in response, and lets you work without further interruption.

You sew him back together where Rielle couldn't, watching skin and scale knit and rebuild under your touch. The sight always fascinated you - that you could save someone like this when swords could only do so much. You remember Sid asking why you were hellsbent on taking up conjury on top of the dark arts, and you remember answering him with a cryptic sense of satisfaction. Sometimes, a dark knight was lucky to be able to save only themselves - you lived by that, but you didn’t want to settle for just _lucky._

“You always did this for me when we were younger. Always putting me back together.” Sid murmurs when the cure spell wraps around his hurts. It mends the flesh together gently, unlike the clumsy, coarse way you did while alive. The benefit of having a body that can hold so much damned aether, you suppose.

“Because you were terribly reckless.” You let the spell dance on his skin, privately hoping the moment will last longer than necessary. 

This hasn't changed. You're doing it with someone else’s face this time, but with the same eyes. You inspect what’s left of the wound after you’ve finished, scar tissue holding the torn flesh together. Your grip travels from Sid’s forearm, to his wrist, then to his hand, until your palms meet. His hand curls around yours, entwining your fingers, uneven claws barely scraping the skin. Your meeting is not filled with the visceral violence of a restless abyss, but the solace of his careful touch.

You take refuge in it - the way you can feel his pulse and find his limbal rings glowing softly in the gloom. It makes you feel a little more solid and _real_. You bring his hand up to your lips and press a kiss to the back of it, over the collection of onyx scales there. Sid no longer flushes with embarrassment, his bright, black aether only yearning to meet yours when it dares to almost breach the surface.

“Are you going to put them back together, too?” He thumbs over the scars that aren't your own. 

“That's who Fray was to you.” You say, giving his hand a squeeze, quietly memorizing the feeling of his calloused palm. “As for who I am to our dear friend… we’ll just have to find out, won't we?”

“Can I be an accomplice?” Rielle asks, rocking on the balls of her feet when she dares to pipe up from her spot at the doorframe. Sid’s hand slips out of yours when he turns towards her, taken slightly aback.

“Rielle, you should be in bed,” He begins when she darts around him without warning, fitting perfectly in the space between you and Sid. You regard her fondly, your heart terrifically full at the sight of her.

“I saw lights on in the hall.” She says with a small shrug, tugging at the fabric of her nightgown.

“Ah. Sorry about that. Didn't mean to keep you awake.” Sid glances towards the kettle sitting atop the stove. “Should I make you some tea?”

“No thank you,” She shakes her head, her gaze then flickering towards the collection of paper and ink you’ve hoarded. “I was curious about what you two were doing, though. And whether you’d let me share your secret, too”

“How can I say no to such a dastardly request?” You smile, a glint of mischief in your eye. “When they return from gallivanting about the realm, all I ask is that you feign ignorance if they ask who penned this. I doubt they'll figure it out on their own.” You add, wryly.

“Aye, we'll go along with your little theatrics, if that's what you want.” Sid nods.

“Is that all?” Rielle asks. “Not even a hint?”

“Nothing more, nothing less.” You take the letter in your hands, turning it over in thought. “The words are what they make of it.” While you wanted a measure of secrecy, you cannot help but fathom what they will think. Perhaps they'd never discern the truth at all, after deciding to cast off the mantle of dark knight. You wouldn't blame them, after all the foolishness you've put them through.

“You’re making a face like you're saying goodbye.” Rielle says after a lengthy pause, watching you intently by the waning flame.

Always perceptive, that one. You don't say anything, simply extending your arm and beckoning her closer. You wrap it around her shoulders and pull her into a hug - she immediately buries her head into your shoulder. 

“Only time will tell.” No good thing lasts forever, even she must know. And yours has been a chapter long overdue for closure.

“I’d miss you if you were gone again.” Her voice is slightly muffled in the material of your shirt. She doesn't cry, though. You stroke her hair and back, feeling her frame shudder when she sighs, clinging fast to you.

You don't answer her, missing her small frame when you finally part. She looks at you with clear blue eyes - or, perhaps, she's looking at _them_ when she looks at your face, pleading for them to not forget you. 

“I won't ever truly be gone. Remember what you told Myste - that the dead live on in memory, in our hearts.” And you know she's strong enough to live with the memory of you in her heart, no matter what she may think. The corner of your mouth curls upwards. “And Sid’s right - you ought to be in bed.” 

She makes a defeated noise, but not one accompanied by a significant amount of resistance considering it’s already quite late. Rielle slips back through the hall like a ghost, pausing to glance back at you. “Hey, Fray? Can you stay with me like you did when... ” She asks, stopping in the doorway. For a moment, she is the girl you first rescued from the clutches of an iron cage, with trembling hands and eyes full of fear - and then, she is the girl you watched grow from charred seeds, facing each day without fear and her head held high.

Aren’t you the one getting sentimental now? “Of course. I'll join you soon.” You assure her, surprised your voice doesn’t waver in some capacity.

Rielle ducks into her room and you set to cleaning the whirlwind of paper you've left on the table. Sid moves to help you gather your belongings, bumping elbows with you this time.

He stands beside you as he shuffles the unused paper into a stack, letting out a short chuckle. “You know, she's been telling me she's too old to share beds anymore.”

You give him a flat look, holding the well of ink in one palm. “I’d imagine it must be difficult to tolerate your snoring all the time.” 

“I do not _snore,_ thank you.” He crosses his arms, letting out a huff.

“Aye, keep telling yourself that if it helps you sleep.” The grin that splits your face is one you can’t mask behind a helm.

“And even if I do, it's not like you were any better,” Sid scoffs. “In fact, you were _worse_.”

“You got used to it, didn't you?” 

“Only because I had to.” He sticks his tongue out in a most mature display of petulance.

Your half-hearted bickering comes to an end once all of your paraphernalia has been swept off the table and your letter is tucked safely away in your pack. A comfortable silence engulfs the room when you're both done stowing the writing supplies away, shadows quickly consuming every corner of the house from how long you’ve lingered.

You mentally catalogue each crack and scrape in the wood, some from old age and others from dashing down the halls with reckless abandon. You recall each time you fled through the house with tomes or a sword in hand, scarfed down a warm meal when your hands went numb, or scrubbed old blood and soot-laden snow off the floor. The memories of laughter and chatter bouncing off the walls stuck with you more than ones of swinging a claymore about in unforgiving solitude, a tightness forming in your chest. Sid catches you staring into your childhood, words resting on the tip of his forked tongue.

“You’ll always have a home here.” He tells you, hushed in the dim hallway as you leave your master’s study. “Because even if you were an insufferable bastard, _you_ were my home. Snoring, bruises, and stolen covers included.” 

He was naught save spitfire when you knew him, but now he holds you in fragile regard, like the flame of the night’s last candle. He half-smiles in that crooked way of his, with fangs barely visible. For all his edges and points, you rather liked this part of him better - after fire and blood, stolen away from the cold. 

You reach up and tug him close by one chipped horn. You've learned how to prelude your touch with a delicate guidance, one that only draws a startled gasp from him bereft of any real pain. It’s dark enough that you can’t see him in great detail, and you can only hope the same for him, so that he can imagine whoever’s face he’d like when your exhale ghosts over his lips. You frame his face with your hands, fingers dancing over the scales at his jaw, and kiss him properly this time. 

Fleeting, chaste, yet a gentle communion all the same. You don’t seek anything more, just wanting to confirm that he is _here._ The pleasure of it is remarkably simple, yet one you were so easily denied when you lacked skin to call your own. To your delight, the spark in the abyss is the same as the all the times you’ve done this before. You relish the faint sigh that escapes him and the way his eyes stay closed when you slowly part. He's not naive anymore, so he won't say it, but he doesn't want to say goodbye to you, either. 

“I know.” Your lips brush lightly against his. Your whisper is kept in his lungs when he inhales the breath between you. “Thank you.”

He rights himself, brushing his unkempt hair out of his face to keep busy with his hands. You notice a giddiness has settled itself high on his cheeks when he clears his throat. “Well, go on. Keep her company, like you used to. I’ll clean up the rest.” He cocks his head towards Rielle’s room.

You nod and silently slip through Rielle’s door, finding her under the covers and lit only by the lantern on her nightstand. She dazedly glances around, blinking the beginnings of sleep away. You almost decide to leave, not wanting to wake her, but she smiles when you’re the phantom in her doorway, eagerly awaiting your company.

You’re not sure of the words you should say to her - what you _could_ say when your throat runs dry at the sight of her. You pull the chair from the corner of the room towards her bedside, a sense of deja vu nestling itself in your breast. She shied away from you when you first met - a consequence of greeting her in your set of full armor when she awoke far from her iron gaol. She barely spoke, barely ate, barely wanted to live… now, you ruffle her hair with one hand, petting her fluffy blonde locks. She leans into your palm with a content sigh, as if she would fall asleep again.

“Rielle,” You say suddenly, drawing her attention from the soothing motions. “Indulge me in another conjury lesson?”

“This late?” She asks, a hint of confusion tinging her voice.

“Sorry.” You bow your head slightly in apology. “It won’t take long. I promise.”

She gives you a nod in response, trying her best to stay awake. This isn’t the lush shelter of the Shroud, with flora to obscure you from anything that might try to bring her harm. No hum of the Elementals thrumming beneath your skin, no bird calls in the treetops, no sweet summer breeze to chase her worries away. No promise of apples hanging above your heads, either.

Just the night, and you. But you've been here before, when the nightmares wouldn't relinquish their grip and you would stay with her until the first stirrings of the sun.

“Hold your hands out to me.” You do the same, with your palms facing up. She places her smaller ones in yours, and you feel them clearly, even through another’s skin. The current of aether beneath her touch is ancient and unyielding, a majesty that makes the nadir at the bottom of your soul seem insignificant. “Think of all the times you've healed us, and turn that into power in your hands. Let me shape your aether...”

You gather the fragments of your soul and arrange them into mismatched petals, guiding her hands so they cradle the trickle of aether solidifying between you. A flower of violet and amethyst blooms in her cupped palms, sharp as a blade and just as deadly. Astonishment crosses her expression as it glows with the steady rhythm of her heart.

“A lily?” Rielle asks. A flicker of pained recognition passes through her - they were your favorite flower when Coerthas was green, and you found few in the Shroud when you spirited her away beneath the thick canopy. 

She says nothing, watching the crystallized petals unfurl and dissipate into thin air.

“If I can’t grant you a dark knight’s sword, allow me to at least gift you this.” You tell her, concluding your lesson and settling your hands on your lap. “You've become strong, Rielle. Even if Sid acts like a surly old man, he knows you're more than capable of taking care of yourself. I do, too.”

She takes a shuddering breath. “I never got the chance to say this back then, but… thank you. For everything.” You can feel her sorrow in distant echoes of another soul, but she won't cry. She’s mourned you once already.

“I should be the one thanking you,” You return with a shake of your head. Because without her, you would have never found the flame in the abyss, found the meaning in your suffering, or found a new reason to raise someone else’s sword. If this is goodbye, it's the goodbye that Fray Myste never had the chance to give.

Your melancholy must show on your face, because she tugs you forth by the arm, coaxing you beneath the downy covers she’s pushed aside. You do little to resist when she makes room for you in her bed, situating yourself beside her. 

“Good thing they brought a lot of blankets with them this time, huh?” Rielle whispers.

“They insisted we pick up more at the Crozier once they heard you mention how cold the nights were getting.” You inform her with a secretive smile. “Wouldn't settle for anything less than the fluffiest ones they could get their hands on.”

She laughs softly at that, inching towards you. There’s just enough space for you to bring her into your arms. The plush blankets surround you both, shielding you from the world. She’s been growing while you were away, but she is always small in your grasp. You’re reminded of your youth, when you slept with other children in the Brume, your small frames keeping each other warm throughout the night.

You’re not sure how warm a ghost could be, but you hold her close regardless. You keep the shadows at bay like you used to, and listen to the sound of her breathing, making sure it's steady before falling into the depths yourself.

-

You wait. It is damnably cold in the shadow of the Gates of Judgement.

You're intimately familiar with it. The crunch of snow beneath boots, the unyielding ice, the deathly still silence. Things you never liked when you grew up among vibrant meadows, fields of green, and towering trees to hide you from Halone herself.

Your other half watches each exhale, white puffs like dragon breath. You count the seconds with the rise and fall of their chest, their pulse slow and even as they watch the horizon. Twilight threatens to claim the highlands, the last rays of sun bouncing off gleaming ice.

The past is a dancing procession through their crystal-flecked irises, swirling about like powdery snow in the Coerthan wind. 

Pain turned to scars, scars turned to memories. Bitter winter turns to vivid spring, and blackest night turns to brightest dawn. The heavens turn uncaring with stars, the hells turn unforgiving and mortal. They wade through a sea of fire and blood and agony, the heavy stench of death and burning flesh permeating each step on the path. And they remember comforting hearths, meals passed between weary hands, stories told from beneath bruises and broken bones. There were songs, too; requiems and anthems in foreign tongues. Ones for homes that were far out of reach, ones that made them miss a time and place and life they had never lived.

But the choir is quiet now. It’s been a long while since you've been alone together. No enemies, no allies, no extra souls to drown out your voice - just you, and them. In the snow, and in the cold. In the dark… 

Almost alone, anyways. Myste hums quietly, a requiem always passing from his lips. This time he wears a thin smile, eyes sad as he watches you. It is a small gesture, the way he steps closer, as if to embrace you, to relieve you of the tender ache settling in your core.

“No good thing lasts forever.” He says plainly, stealing the words from your mouth.

“I know.” The words are less steady than you would like, hovering in the abyss before being smothered and swallowed. “But that doesn't mean I cannot cherish the precious time between here and oblivion.”

“And they will cherish you, after you’re gone.” He nods, taking your hands. Even through your armor, they were always so cold, so small, so delicate. “A memory of a memory held dear, kept locked away in their heart.”

He shimmers for a moment in the dark, in the way that sunlight catches locks of silver, that lanterns reflect in eyes made of ice, that steel clashes on steel. The sadness hangs ever present about him, and yet he seems happier than before. He’s watched them, too, from his place in the nadir.

Myste is a child, so you allow yourself to be childish. “Must we part ways?” You knew this day would come, if you ever shed this pretense of being here yet not here. Strangely enough, you can envision it more clearly than the first time you died. There is no beckon of the Mothercrystal, Her radiance refracted in a thousand rays, nor hungry flames to receive you. It is only slumber in the endless, sunless sea of nothingness. What gentle damnation for the end of your journey.

“Time claims all, in the end. How fortunate was I to share this journey with you, and with them. To behold the horrors and wonders of the world, to know why they carry on. Should I be silent once more, I will have no qualms.” He replies, calm and wiser beyond his youthful facade. He smiles softly, like the beginnings of snowfall. “If we did, I would miss you. Another face among the dead, but one who we saved, perhaps. _Gave life._ And one who saved us, in turn.”

In the way he looks at you, you know he is staring at what lies under your barbut when you’re not even certain what face is there yourself. 

“I'm no Saint from the dead, boy. Just another sinner.” They gave you your rites, but you refused to stay in your shallow grave.

He shakes his head. “Aren't we all, at the heart of it? Sins that we must bear, to remind us… of whom we gift the morrow.”

That was once a lie you repeated to yourself with a sword buried in your side. Over and over in your last moments, iron in your mouth, runes sparking across your sword, the dark receiving you in a tender vise. That someone would carry on in your place when you couldn’t, that fate would allow this one mercy for even a soul beyond salvation like yours. 

One way or another, you received an answer. You’ve gifted your morrow to them, and so have countless others. Pitiful lives cut short by the cruelty and suffering of the world, yearning for a future they would never see. And yet, you’ve had the chance to watch it grow into something bright and beautiful - nothing grand or fantastic, but a place to entrust the remnants of your hope.

Just like the many other tomorrows they would bring to the realm. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, an echo in swirling aether ringing in your ears like a hymn lost to time. Even if you're not a part of it, it wouldn't matter to you now.

“They're calling for you.” You can feel the way the darkness searches in an embrace, even though nothing has passed their lips yet. Myste’s expression turns playful. “Does hearing your name in their voice make you happy?”

“Quiet, you.” You hiss. He giggles, full of innocent mirth.

They finally say your name into the air where the emptiness of the snowy plains swallows it up, a smile touching their face. They feel you stir in the abyss and know just where to find you.

-

They return to the Forgotten Knight - return _home,_ after all is said and done, to the room Gibrillont keeps for them. The scent of a funeral flower floats through your idle thoughts, fleeting before it was replaced by the sharp chill of the Coerthan air. 

They take the time to savor the cloak of shadow lovingly wrapped around them when they were bathed in the glory of everlasting light. The bed beckons tantalizingly with its ever-scratchy mattress and worn blankets. Their pack lands on the surface first, followed by a body prepared to join the Father of Dragons in his sleep.

Rest, well-deserved after the storm. You exist in the twilight they've reclaimed, joining the phantoms long on the walls. The flames of the hearth make them dance around them in an inky crown as they close their eyes.

You've seen what burdens they've suffered, through the highest of hope and the deepest of despair, sacrifice everything for the people and realm they love without a hint of hesitation, and carry the day through their admirable will alone. Impossible feats are made possible, all by their own hands. You've felt them fumble around their splintered core, desperately trying to find a sliver of the abyss when the light was breaking them apart. It did not answer their summons when stagnated to perfect stillness - you were all but bleached away when they needed you most, a soundless torture where you could only watch from fragmented consciousness.

But in life, you were viciously stubborn. In death, even moreso. They succeeded, partly, because you refused to let them die without a shadow. Like the offerings they've made to you, you offered up some half-mirage of yourself that wasn't devoured by the flood of divine emptiness. A parting gift, if it came to that - a little trick imbued with a piece of your soul, so that you could be more than just another pair of hands on the hilt of their sword when their grip faltered.

Night falls, dawn breaks. 

If you're being perfectly honest, they don't need you anymore when they are filled to the brim with life and love. You’ve made your peace with this truth; you've given them enough of yourself to be content. You don't mind being their memory of a memory, smudged away by their radiance. They are meant for greater things than ghosts clinging to the walls.

They take their journal out of their pack, reverently sifting through the well-loved pages. The small familiarity of routine stays and soothes. They've written down every escapade lest they forget their travails, from mundane tasks to tales of fantasy. A habit they've held fast to since their days as a fledgeling. 

The moments between this pilgrimage were writ in runes - a language on the tongues of the dead, lost to the living save for the few who chose to remember the abyss and its inevitability. You've been writing between their words again, the burden of two worlds making their slumber blessedly deep. Of course, the decision is always theirs to make - to keep the crystal close, or keep it stashed away for the remainder of their days. Whether the runes are scratches of mere nonsense or a confession in ink depends entirely on them.

Your letter is pressed between the pages, your soul crystal in their palm. You hold your silence as they read the passages, their breath hitching in their throat and hand warm with your pulse.

 _Closure,_ you said. But they don't miss the goodbye woven into your words. The lonely ache that settles in their chest shakes you to your core, even through your stalwart vigil.

There are no tears this time. Defiance makes their soul stir, because they are beautifully, damnably stubborn. They’re selfish, too, but aren't you as well, inciting this? They won't have any more farewells - especially from _you,_ their shadow, their own sunless sea.

They put a little more force into it, when they beckon you from the depths. You can't ignore such an earnest plea and you rise to the surface, solid as can be.

You are pitch, dripping on the floorboards when the mire of the abyss still clings to you. They pull you close in a soft crux, in this space between the realm of the living and the dead. You are one of the precious few privy to this - touch always meant fresh pain to them, but they don't hesitate to take you in their arms.

“Please don’t imagine that I’d ever forsake you.” They say into your murky body, the words reverberating around your semblance of a soul. “I’d love you in the furthest corner of any star or shard.”

And, well. You feel a little ridiculous in that moment, fully prepared to stay locked away if they willed it. You don't move from your summoning, instead focusing on the runes in a circle on the floor.

“There would be no shame in it. ‘Twas my lot in life to be a shade, and only fitting it was my lot in death as well.” You tell them, indulging in the weight of their scarred, broken body against yours. “You shouldn't hold onto me. You've saved the world… and yourself, without me. You've become a true hero.” _And I couldn't be prouder,_ the way your aether shifts and shimmers silently finishes.

“I shouldn't be doing a lot of things.” They return with a faint laugh. “Shouldn't be fighting gods, shouldn't be - _here,_ when you know how many times I’ve bled out and died. You wanted me to live. I want you to live, too.”

“This isn't anything close to being alive.” You reply gently.

“It's close to being real.” They pull away, eyes clear with undiluted crystal light. You are molten gold from the forge, dulled by their radiance. “Even if you're only real to me, doesn't that make it enough?” 

You say nothing, listening to the tempo of their heartbeat. _Your heartbeat._ You don't have a quip for them, but you know their heart. It bleeds like any other, and is far too large and soft to cast away anything that's taken residence in it.

Even you.

“Stay with me?” As if they need to ask.

You're the one to step forth this time with open arms. “I will.” 

They've resolved to have you, the part of them that could not become a hero, the part of them that wanted to be heard. And you, them. Elation mixed with a subtle relief overtakes you to know you would share this journey with them still. They aren't full of sorrow and anger and holy light anymore; they are a calm, quiet night, tinged with affection when they welcome you home.

You hold tight until you sink into their embrace, back into their fathomless sea, until you are whole again.


End file.
